As Jamie sits in the French bakery on the Terrace, he thinks about typhoid.
Typhoid?
He reads a headline in The Dominion Post about a typhoid outbreak in Porirua, where he lives.
Typhoid?
Jamie remembers inoculation against polio (mostly because they poked him in the bum) and the flu, but not against typhoid, that was something young children in Dickens books suffered from. He takes a sip of his coffee and lets his gaze drift out the window. How very literary it would be, he decides, to catch typhoid. He might dress in heavy blue robes during the day and move about at a slow shuffle. At night, he will moan and let the burning illness focus his mind on what he's never done, and then he'll moan some more.
Jamie suddenly remembers that one of the symptoms of typhoid is diarrhoea. Perhaps he will not catch typhoid, after all. No, indeed he won't. Instead, he invites readers to listen to a song by Sufjan Stevens (thank you, Dakin). Note--no video, just music.
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